Dragons of a Fallen Sun

by Margaret Weis

  “What?” Silvan gasped. He caught hold of the tent post to steady himself. “What execution? Whose?”

  “Tomorrow at noon, when the glorious sun stands high in the sky to serve as our witness, we will execute the human,” said Konnal. He did not look at the king as he spoke, but stared straight into the night. “Glaucous has recommended it, and in this I agree with him.”

  “Glaucous!” Silvan repeated.

  He remembered Glaucous in the tent, remembered the fear he had sensed in him. Mina had been about to tell Silvan something about Glaucous before they had been interrupted.

  “You cannot kill her!” Silvan said firmly. “You will not. I forbid it.”

  “I am afraid that Your Majesty has no say in this matter,” said Konnal. “The Heads of House have been apprised of the situation. They have voted, and their vote is unanimous.”

  “How will she be killed?” Silvan asked.

  Konnal laid a kindly hand on the king’s shoulder. “I know this is an onerous task, Your Majesty. You don’t need to remain to watch. Just step out and say a few words, and then retire to your tent. No one will think the worse of you.”

  “Answer me, damn you!” Silvan cried, striking the man’s hand away.

  Konnal’s face froze. “The human is to be taken to the field that is drenched in the blood of our people. She is to be tied to a stake. Seven of our best archers will be chosen. When the sun is directly overhead, when the human no longer casts a shadow, the archers will fire seven arrows into her body.”

  Silvan could not see the general for the blinding white rage that filled his being. He clenched his fist, dug his nails into his flesh. The pain helped him steady his voice. “Why does Glaucous say she must die?”

  “His reasoning is sound. So long as she lives, the humans will remain in the area, hoping to rescue her. With her execution, they will lose all hope. They will be demoralized. Easier to locate, easier to destroy.”

  Silvan felt his gorge rise. He feared he would be sick, but he struggled to make one last argument. “We elves revere life. We do not by law take the life of any elf, no matter how terrible his or her crime. Elf assassins exist, but only outside the law.”

  “We do not take the life of an elf,” Konnal answered. “We take the life of a human. Goodnight, Your Majesty. I will send a messenger to you before dawn.”

  Silvan entered his tent and shut the flap behind him. His servants awaited him.

  “Leave me,” Silvan ordered irritably, and the servants hurriedly departed.

  Silvan threw himself on his bed, but he was up almost immediately. He flung himself into a chair and stared moodily into the darkness. He could not let this girl die. He loved her. Adored her. He had loved her from the moment he had seen her standing courageously, fearlessly, among her soldiers. He had stepped off the precipice of sanity and plummeted down on love’s sharp rocks. They tore and mangled him. He gloried in the pain and wanted more.

  A plan formed in his mind. What he was doing was wrong. He might well be placing his people in danger, but—he argued—what they were doing was wrong, and their wrong was greater than his. He was, in a way, saving them from themselves.

  Silvan gave the general time to return to his tent, then wrapped himself in a dark cloak. He thrust a long, sharp knife into his boot. Peering out of the tent flap, he looked to see that no one was about. He left his tent, sneaked through the slumbering camp with quiet tread.

  Two guards, alert and watchful, stood outside Mina’s tent. Silvan did not go near them. He circled to the back of the tent where he had hidden to eavesdrop on Glaucous. Silvan looked carefully around. The woods were only a few paces away. They could reach them easily. They would find a cave. He would hide her there in safety, come to visit her in the night, bring her food, water, his love …

  Removing the knife, Silvan placed its sharp point against the fabric of the tent and, working carefully and silently, cut a slit near the bottom. He crawled through the slit and inside the tent.

  The candle still burned. Silvan was careful to keep his body from passing in front of it, afraid that the guards would see his shadow.

  Mina had fallen asleep on her straw pallet. She slept on her side, her legs drawn up, her hands—still chained—curled up against her breast. She looked very fragile. Her slumbers were seemingly dreamless, and peaceful. Her breath came and went easily through her nose and her parted lips.

  Silvan clapped his hand over her mouth to prevent any startled exclamation. “Mina!” he whispered urgently. “Mina.”

  Her eyes opened. She made no sound. The amber eyes gazed up at him, aware of him, cognizant of her surroundings.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said and realized as he said it that this girl had never known fear. She did not know fear now. “I’ve come to free you.” He tried to speak calmly, but his voice and his hands trembled. “We can escape out the back of the tent into the woods. We have to get these manacles off.”

  He moved his hand away. “Call the guard. He has the key. Tell him you’re ill. I’ll wait in the shadows and—”

  Mina put her fingers on his lips, stopped his words. “No,” she said. “Thank you, but I will not leave.”

  “What was that?” one of the guards asked his fellow. “Did you hear something?”

  “It came from inside the tent.”

  Silvan lifted his knife. Mina laid a restraining hand on his arm. She began to sing.

  Sleep, love; forever sleep.

  Your soul the night will keep.

  Embrace the darkness deep.

  Sleep, love; forever sleep.

  The voices of the guards ceased.

  “There,” she said to Silvan. “The guards are asleep. We may talk without fear.”

  “Asleep …” Silvan lifted the tent flap. The guards remained standing at their posts, their heads bowed, their chins resting on their chests. Their eyes were closed.

  “Are you a sorceress?” he asked, coming back to her.

  “No, I am only a faithful follower,” Mina replied. “The gifts I have are from my God.”

  “May your God keep you safe. Hurry, Mina! Out this way. We will find a path not far from here. The path runs through …” Silvan halted.

  She was shaking her head.

  “Mina,” he said desperately, “we must escape! They’re going to execute you at noon this very day. With the rising of the sun. Glaucous has convinced them. He fears you, Mina.”

  “He has good reason to fear me,” she said sternly.

  “Why, Mina?” Silvan asked. “You were going to tell me something about him. What is it?”

  “Only that he is not what he appears and that by his magic, your people are dying. Tell me this”—she put her hand upon his cheek—“is it your desire to punish Glaucous? Reveal his intentions to your people and thereby reveal his murderous plan?”

  “Yes, of course, but what—”

  “Then do as I instruct you,” Mina said. “Do exactly as I say. My life is in your keeping. If you fail me—”

  “I will not fail you, Mina,” Silvan whispered. Seizing her hand, he pressed it to his lips. “I am yours to command.”

  “You will attend my execution—Hush! Say nothing. You promised. Make certain that you are armed. Position yourself at Glaucous’s side. Keep a large number of your bodyguards around you. Will you do that?”

  “Yes, but what then? Must I watch you die?”

  “You will know what to do and when to do it. Rest assured. The One God is with us. You must go now, Silvan. The general will send someone to your tent to check on you. He must not find you absent.”

  To leave her was to leave a part of himself. Silvan reached out his hand, ran his fingers over her head, felt the warmth of her skin, the softness of the downlike hair, the hardness of the bone beneath. She held perfectly still under his touch, did not warm to him, but did not move away from him either.

  “What did your hair look like, Mina?” he asked.

  “It was the color of flame,
long and thick. The strands would curl around your finger and tug at your heart like a baby’s hand.”

  “Your hair must have been beautiful,” Silvan said. “Did you lose it in a fever?”

  “I cut it,” she told him. “I took a knife and I cut it off at the roots.”

  “Why?” He was aghast.

  “My God required it of me. I cared too much for my looks,” Mina replied. “I liked to be petted, admired, loved. My hair was my vanity, my pride. I sacrificed it to prove my faith. I have only one love, now. Only one loyalty. You must leave me now, Silvan.”

  Silvan stood up. Reluctantly, he moved to the back of the tent.

  “You are my one love, Mina,” he said softly.

  “It is not me that you love,” she said to him. “It is the God in me.”

  Silvan did not remember leaving her tent, but he found himself standing outside in the darkness.

  30

  To Your Health!

  ight settled over the battlefield of Silvanesti, shrouding the bodies of the dead that were being ceremoniously prepared for burial. The same night wrapped like a winding cloth around the elven capital of Qualinost.

  The night had a feel of doom about it, or so Gerard thought. He walked the streets of the elven capital with his hand on the hilt of his sword, his watchful gaze looking for the glint of steel in every shadowed corner, every dark doorway. He crossed the street to avoid passing in front of an alley. He scrutinized every second story window curtain to see if it fluttered, as it might if an archer stood behind it, ready with an assassin’s arrow.

  He was conscious, always, of eyes watching him, and once he felt so threatened that he whipped around, sword drawn, to defend against a knife in the back. He saw nothing, however, but he was certain someone had been there, someone who had perhaps been daunted by the Knight’s heavy battle armor and his shining sword.

  Gerard could not even breath a sigh of relief when he reached safely the Headquarters of the Knights of Neraka. Danger was no longer sneaking stealthily behind him. Danger was front and center.

  He entered the headquarters to find a single officer on duty, the draconian asleep the floor.

  “Here’s the answer for Beryl from Marshal Medan,” said Gerard, saluting.

  “About time!” The officer grunted. “You can’t believe how loudly that thing snores!”

  Gerard walked over to the draconian, who was twitching in his sleep and making strange, guttural sounds.

  “Groul,” Gerard said and reached out a hand to shake the slumbering draconian.

  A hiss, a snarl, a flapping of wings and scrabbling of feet. Clawed hands grappled for Gerard’s throat.

  “Hey!” Gerard yelled, fending off the draconian’s attack. “Calm down, will you?”

  Groul glared at him with squint lizard eyes. His tongue flicked. Lowering his hand from Gerard’s neck, the draconian drew back. “Sorry,” he muttered. “You startled me.”

  The marks of Groul’s claws stung and burned on Gerard’s skin. “My fault,” he said stiffly. “I shouldn’t have wakened you so suddenly.” He held out the scroll case. “Here is the marshal’s answer.”

  Groul took it, eyed it to make certain the seal was intact. Satisfied, he thrust it into the belt of his harness, turned and, with a grunt, headed for the door. The creature wasn’t wearing armor, Gerard noted, thinking glumly to himself that the draco didn’t need to wear armor. The thick, scaly hide was protection enough.

  Gerard drew in a deep breath, sighed it out, and followed the draconian.

  Groul turned. “What are you doing, Nerakan?”

  “You are in a hostile land after nightfall. My orders are to accompany you safely to the border,” Gerard said.

  “You are going to protect me?” Groul gave a gurgle that might have been a laugh. “Bah! Go back to your soft bed, Nerakan. I am in no danger. I know how to deal with elf scum.”

  “I have my orders,” said Gerard stubbornly. “If anything happened to you, the marshal would do the same to me.”

  Groul’s lizard eyes glittered in anger.

  “I have something with me that might shorten the journey for both of us,” Gerard added. Drawing aside his cloak, he revealed a flask he wore on his hip.

  The glitter of anger brightened to a gleam of desire, a gleam swiftly hooded.

  “What is in the flask, Nerakan?” Groul asked, his tongue darting out between his sharp teeth.

  “Dwarf spirits,” said Gerard. “A gift from the marshal. He asks that once we are safe across the border, we join him in drinking to the downfall of the elves.”

  Groul made no more protest about Gerard’s accompanying him. The two trudged off through the silent streets of Qualinost. Again, Gerard felt eyes watching them, but no one attacked. Gerard was not surprised. The draconian was a fearsome opponent.

  Reaching the wilderness, the draconian followed one of the main trails leading into the woods. Then, with a suddenness that took Gerard by surprise, Groul plunged into the forest, taking a route known only to the draconian, or so Gerard guessed. The draconian had excellent night vision, to judge by the rapidity with which he moved through the tangled forest. The moon was waning, but the stars provided light, as did the glow of the lights of Qualinost. The forest floor was a mass of brush and vines. Weighed down by his heavy armor, Gerard found the going hard. He had no need to feign fatigue when he called out for the draconian to halt.

  “No need to kill ourselves,” Gerard said, panting. “How about a moment’s rest?”

  “Humans!” Groul sneered. He was not even breathing hard, but he came to a halt, looked back at the Knight. To be more precise, the draconian looked at the flask. “Still, this walking is thirsty work. I could use a drink.”

  Gerard hesitated. “My orders—”

  “To the Abyss with your orders!” Groul snarled.

  “I don’t suppose one little nip would hurt,” Gerard said and removed the flask. He drew the cork, sniffed. The pungent, dark and musky odor of dwarf spirits burned his nostrils. Snorting, he held the flask at arm’s length. “A good year,” he said, his eyes tearing.

  The draconian snatched the flask and brought it to his mouth. He took a long drink, then lowered the flask with a satisfied sigh. “Very good,” he said in husky tones and burped.

  “To your health,” Gerard said and put the flask to his mouth. Keeping his tongue pressed against the opening, he pretended to swallow. “There,” he said with seeming reluctance, putting the cork back in the flask, “that’s enough. We should be on our way.”

  “Not so fast!” Groul seized the flask, drew out the cork and tossed it away. “Sit down, Nerakan.”

  “But your mission—”

  “Beryl isn’t going anywhere,” Groul said, settling himself against the bole of a tree. “Whether she gets this message tomorrow or a year from tomorrow won’t make any difference. Her plans for the elves are already in motion.”

  Gerard’s heart lurched. “What do you mean?” he asked, trying to sound casual. He settled down beside the draconian and reached for the flask.

  Groul handed it over with obvious reluctance. He kept his gaze fixed on Gerard, grudging every drop the Knight supposedly drank, and snatched it back the moment Gerard lowered it from his lips.

  The liquid gurgled down the draconian’s throat. Gerard was alarmed by how much the creature could drink, wondered if one flask would be enough.

  Groul sighed, belched and wiped his mouth with the back of a clawed hand.

  “You were telling me about Beryl,” Gerard said.

  “Ah, yes!” Groul held the flask to the moonlight. “Here’s to my lady dragon, the lovely Beryl. And to the death of the elves.”

  He drank. Gerard pretended to drink.

  “Yes,” said Gerard. “The marshal told me. She has given the elves six days—”

  “Ha, ha! Six days!” Groul’s laugh bubbled in his throat. “The elves do not have six minutes! Beryl’s army is probably crossing the border as we speak! It is
a huge army, the largest seen on Ansalon since the Chaos War. Draconians, goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, human conscripts. We attack Qualinost from without. You Neraka Knights attack the elves from within. The Qualinesti are caught between fire and water with nowhere to run. At last, I will see the day dawn when not one of the pointy-eared scum are left alive.”

  Gerard’s stomach twisted. Beryl’s army crossing the border! Perhaps within a day’s march on Qualinost!

  “Will Beryl herself come to ensure her victory?” he asked, hoping that the catch in his throat would be mistaken for an aftereffect of the fiery liquor.

  “No, no.” Groul chuckled. “She leaves the elves to us. Beryl is flying off to Schallsea, to destroy the so-called Citadel of Light. And to capture some wretched mage. Here, Nerakan, stop hogging that flask!”

  Groul grabbed the flask, slid his tongue over the rim.

  Gerard’s hand closed over the hilt of his knife. Slowly, quietly, he drew it from its sheath on his belt. He waited until Groul had lifted the flask one more time. The flask was almost empty. The draconian tilted back his head to retrieve every last drop.

  Gerard struck, driving his knife with all his strength into the draconian’s ribs, hoping to hit the heart.

  He would have hit the heart on a human, but apparently a draconian’s heart was in a different place. Either that or the creatures didn’t possess hearts, which would not have surprised Gerard.

  Realizing that his blow had not killed, Gerard yanked free the bloody knife. He scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword in the same motion.

  Groul was injured but not critically. His grunt of pain rising to a howl of rage, he jumped up out of the brush, roaring in fury, his clawed hand grappling for his sword. The draconian attacked with a hacking blow, meant to split open his opponent’s head.

  Gerard parried the blow and managed to knock the sword from Groul’s hand. The weapon fell into the brush at Gerard’s feet. Frantically, he kicked it away as Groul sought to recover it. Gerard drove his booted foot into Groul’s chin, knocking him back, but not felling him.